


from them souls unresting grow

by Mira_Jade



Series: woman, how divine your mission [1]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: . . . unless you ask one Alexander Hamilton, . . . which we aren't, America's founding parents being parents, Canon Era, Character Study, Coping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Married Couple Romance, Martha Washington: Too Good for the Likes of You and Me, Multi, Pre-Canon, Vague Historical Accuracy, War is Not a Happy Pretty Thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 18:35:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5712850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira_Jade/pseuds/Mira_Jade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martha Washington has long played the role of wife and mother. This, she thinks, is little different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	from them souls unresting grow

**Author's Note:**

> These two pieces were originally supposed to be part of a chapter in my [Delope](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5365331/chapters/12390779) ficlet collection . . . but my word-count quickly spiraled out of control - in true Hamilton fashion, so it would seem - and now here we are. I hope that you enjoy. 
> 
> Also, in the interest of full disclaimer: the title is borrowed from William Ross Wallace and his _"The Hand that Rocks the Cradle"_ poem. I could not resist the reference, for I am weak. ;)

Her new husband was at once a mystery and a familiar tale to her.  
  
Martha was not a green wife so much as she was simply new to the role of being _his_ wife. In some ways, she and George were little more than strangers to each other, with they each slowly, but surely, only just learning how to navigate the unknown currents and swirling eddies of their partner's beings. Standing as a cross-current in that turbulent flow were Martha's memories of Daniel, for, no matter that she had long since ceased wearing her widow's weeds, thoughts of her late husband still pushed upon an answering bruise deep within her being - just as she knew of the married Sally Fairfax who continued to hold George's heart in thrall, no matter that he carefully denied his attachment out of true adoration for both the woman in question and his affection for her lawful husband. Perhaps, more than most couples could boast of at the onset of their union, she could claim a burgeoning friendship with her new mate – and it was that thought, more than any other, that gave her hope for the years to come. Truly, it had taken them but hours in the company of the other to recognize their potential compatibility from the comfortable way their rapport so easily formed, and she had every expectation of that accord only growing in the future to come. More unspeakably, as a woman wise to the wantings of the flesh, rather than a blushing maiden who was not permitted to acknowledge such things, she could certainly admit her attraction to her spouse. Upon first meeting, George had seemingly worn the romanticism of the frontier and the wars fought in the wild mountains and sun-dappled forests as a second skin. There had been _something_ . . . a sort of hunger in his eyes . . . a wordless desire for _more_ burning in every word he spoke and every task he set himself to that she could not put a name to define, even as she felt a part of her spirit drawn towards and respond to from the beginning - perhaps surprisingly so.  
  
Yet, the union she wished to define her days could not be built solely upon the bonds of wealth and circumstance as it was first sought, nor could it be sustained by so vague a compatibility and fleeting an attraction. No, the marriage she wished to build would not come at all easily, nor without determination from both parties to make it so - but she _was_ determined to give their new partnership her all. During the spring's whirl of their courtship, and especially during those long, following months while George was gone trying fortune's hand against the French one last time, she had read what remained of his memoirs from his first forays into the wild Ohio Country - the ones that had not been captured by the French at Fort Necessity, that was, just as when he returned from the Forbes expedition she read and learned about everything she could of his time spent away from her, determined as she was to be a wife to him in every way.  
  
But those written accounts were vague, detached missives that did not wholly explain the first winter nights in their marriage when she would blink to awareness to find her new husband already awake in the black hours, his back to her as he sat on the edge of the bed, with every muscle about his body tightly coiled as he sought to rein in some memory, some ghost of feeling that was yet too great for him to chain into submission through mere force of his willpower alone.  
  
That first occurrence, if he noticed her awake and aware, George said nothing of it, and neither did she. Instead, she had lain there with her eyes wide open in the dark, knowing of what she wished to do, of what she wished to say, but yet unsure if he would welcome such actions on her part. Martha had regretted her cowardliness upon the morning, yet she could not find her words to ask him of his pains the following day - or any thereafter. Yet, when next she found him awake and recovering from his dreams, some weeks later, she resolutely sat up and moved closer to him. She said nothing where no words were yet required; instead, she simply rested her hand upon his shoulder, watching as he first flinched at the contact, before holding himself very, very still in answer. Distantly, she was reminded of her first visit to Mount Vernon, earlier that spring, when she had stolen a moment watching him work with that year's crop of yearling colts and fillies in the white-fenced paddocks, slowly and gently breaking the skittish creatures to the idea of tack and rider. Something inside of her had been touched to see the way his patience was rewarded with affection and trust then, and now . . . when she slowly wrapped her arms around him from behind, her courage found, he only sighed once before covering both of her small hands with merely one of his own, all without speaking. The moment had felt like an impossible act of bravery, and the small, curious looks he turned upon her the day following – as if she were a riddle he could not quite define - had quite warmed her heart to receive.  
  
Even so, it was not until the spring was thawing the winter from the fields that he shared his troubles with her for the first. “It was a memory,” he finally confessed in a dry, toneless voice. No matter the apathy such a timbre suggested, she could nonetheless _feel_ the way his lungs expanded and contracted in an uneasy pattern from where she leaned against his back. His hands were warm as they squeezed her own in an absent rhythm. “My regiment arrived to find the frontiersman we were to defend from just such native aggression dead . . . slain. Their scalps were taken as prizes; the hogs fed on their corpses, even the bones. We buried what remains we could, but not a one of those poor wretches ever had a name put to their tomb. I can still see them when I dream; at times they speak to me.”  
  
Her patient coaxing was rewarded with little more than those few short, staccato words – but they were enough. Though silent in her replies, the trust he placed in her - the solace he looked to _find_ in her - endeared him to her heart, just as much as she grew ever closer to the friend and companion she was slowly gaining during the hours when the sun held sway in the sky, and she cherished his confidence.  
  
Eventually, as the spring turned to summer, he told her more. Instead of sitting on the edge of the bed without looking at her, he allowed her to hold him as he whispered of the men he had led and the men he had _failed_ – painting a bleak, horrible picture of their roofless fort flooding with rainwater and filling with the sick stink of their rotting dead, all as enemy fire rained down from where they could not see. His men preferred to break into the rum and wait for death rather than stand their ground and _fight_ when their ammunition was soaked through and made useless by the storm; and, in what words he could, he tried to explain the thunder rumbling alongside the whistling of arrows, punctuating by the native war-cries and the screams of those they took, one by one . . .  
  
. . . then, with the Braddock expedition - knowing that they walked into another Fort Necessity, but his Colonial voice falling deaf on the ears of his British _betters_ until it was too late . . . much too late. With perfect clarity he could still recall the troops in red standing still in straight lines as the Indian warriors and the French they so wisely instructed fell into the forest like shadows and took their reward of flesh as man after man after _man_ . . .  
  
By that autumn, George's short, crisp sentences were long forgotten, and instead he whispered, “So many were our dead that they first seemed beyond the counting . . . yet not I . . . I could not die . . . I could not seem to die.”  
  
His voice was a hushed, quiet thing in the dark, and he distracted himself from his memories by absently running his fingers through her hair. Only recently had he admitted that the rich, dark shade was one of the first things that had attracted him to her – blushing, all the while, to uncharacteristically stammer out his words. Since then, she was quick to take out her pins and let the waves tumble free whenever they were alone.  
  
“Two bullets tore through my hat . . . two burned through my cloak . . . two horses were shot out from underneath me – and still God would not take me from the living,” he had to swallow in order to say, wetting his first useless voice for his use. “As the senior-most officer left standing, it was to me to form what survivors there were into an organized rout, though to this day I cannot tell you how I did so . . . General Braddock I buried myself, and we had the wagons and artillery run over his gravesite so that the enemy could not find and desecrate his body for the prize of his scalp. We few lived, and yet . . .”  
  
What memories they lived with, Martha knew with an echoing pang in her own chest. He could not say anything more, not that night, and, summoning what bravery she had, she found it within herself to whisper, “Yet I am thankful that Providence saw you through that day, and every other like it.”  
  
She felt his hands still in her hair, and she blinked up at him, able to see little more than the gleam of his eyes and the vague shadow of his features in the dark. Even so, she bit her lip as she turned into the warmth of his body, tracing a slow, ghosting fingertip over the pitted pox-scars that brushed from the bridge of his nose and down over his cheekbones like freckles – proof of another day lived, another tragedy survived, so that he, in time, could find his way to her.  
  
“You quite endeared yourself to me before I was even aware of my building affection. I knew that it was my fortune, my connections, that first had Richard introducing you to me, and yet . . .” she hesitated, feeling as if she stood upon a precipice, and breathed in deep, fearing the rush of a fall. Yet, she was determined to repay his honesty with that of her own. And so: “Last June, I worried when you left for the frontier once more - no matter the promise you had given me. I . . . I prayed for you, for the entirety of Forbes' expedition, really . . . hoping that God would not deny me after only just understanding what you could come to mean to me.”  
  
Martha imagined that she could see his eyes flicker with some answering emotion, even though she could not clearly make out its exact shape in the dark; she knew, at the very least, that he did not blink as he stared at her. “And what,” softly, as if any more forceful a sound would ruin the delicate syllables of their words, he asked, “exactly is that?”  
  
“I confess that I cannot give it a name,” a minute passed before she could answer, ducking her gaze away from the sudden intensity of his eyes as she spoke. Even so, she knew that she uttered the truth, for her heart then felt suddenly overwhelmingly full in her chest, all but spilling over to touch her bones with heat as it seemingly burned down to her fingertips. It _was_ quite without a name, and yet, if she had to so unequally describe its rush in the way of consonants and vowels . . .  
  
“Nor can I,” George echoed her sentiments after a long moment, holding her closer to say, so much so that she felt his words as a rumble in his chest more than she heard them spoken aloud. “Nor can I.”  
  
Blinking, she took his words as a promise, and closed her eyes to a peaceful night, protected without remembered dreams.  
  
  
  
.

  
.  
  
There was something terrible in the sound of far off cannon-fire, in the answering rattle felt in one's bones, echoing from the salvos to tremble behind one's heart - so much so that Martha had to bite her lip and close her eyes many a time during those first days she spent with the Continental army. If she first thought her days during the Cambridge campaign to have prepared her for their subsequent winter spent at Morristown, then she was quite sadly mistaken in her initial assumption. Though more muted than what she had been able to hear from Boston by far – for which she was thankful for in the small way she could be, that night the rumble of artificial thunder was made all the worse by knowing that her husband was out there, somewhere in the dark with his men, and there was nothing she could do but bow her head and pray for the invisible deliverance her faith promised. Though she had long ago surrendered the fate of what remained of her family to Providence, her belief in such an unsure destiny was nonetheless rattled by each far off gunshot, by each imagined round of grape-fire, so much so that she could not imagine partaking of her rest without knowing . . .  
  
Resigning herself to a sleepless night, Martha rose and wrapped her shawl more tightly about her shoulders in deference to the chill in the air. She lit a candle, and crossed the tent to sit next to where the brazier still held a merry glow trapped within its grating. Then, deciding that putting a kettle on for tea was too much work with the primitive nature of their camp, she took out a glass tumbler and poured herself a small portion of the Barbados rum that George had set aside for just such nights. The amber liquid glittered under the small light cast by her candle, and she amused herself by imagining her husband's expression if he could see her – easily picturing his raised brow and voiceless acceptance, fond as his bemusement would be. But that thought was a dull pang of its own, and after a moment's further consideration she pushed it away in order to let the warming burn of the spirits do their good work, unmolested by the sabotages of her own mind.  
  
Inhaling a deep breath in a further effort to still her nerves, she then reflected that, in theory, she had known of war's less than glorious ways long before this. She had never been naïve to the scars it gouged deep upon heart and soul, just as it left its tangible marks in tender flesh and impressionable bone. Rather, she had known such uncomfortable truths for years now, ever since the first days of her marriage - with George having so newly put aside his sword in favor of swearing his vows to her and turning his attention to cultivating the soil and the land instead of fighting _for_ that land.  
  
Martha knew now, years later, that she had first begun to truly love her spouse in those whispered interludes, just as, in her own way, she had thought to understand the horrors of war in what small way she could . . . Yet she did not understand anything - not truly, not at _all -_ until those days she spent with the Continental camp, listening to the far off rumble of artillery shake the earth like thunder from the heavens above, all while knowing that somewhere, some poor boy - some father, some husband, some brother, some _son -_ was giving his life for what he so desperately believed in . . . It was a knowledge that weighed upon her, and she struggled to square her shoulders underneath its burden.  
  
. . . for this was not a frontline miles and miles away from their doors, fought over a wild country claimed by a faceless king an ocean away. No, this was a war fought for _their_ homes, for _their_ liberty and very lives, and, if lost . . .  
  
. . . her husband would be one of the first to pay the highest price for the treason of an entire nation, and with that thought in mind, there were times when Martha could not quite breathe with the millstone's weight of such a knowledge hanging about her throat. Even then she could close her eyes and perfectly recall the day George had departed for Philadelphia, dressed for war in a silent promise - an irrefutable vow - when his compatriots in Congress would not yet sign their names to their beliefs for another year's time. Before leaving their home he had confessed to what lengths he was willing to go to for the idea that could become their America, their own _independent_ America, in reality, and asked for her support, for her love – for he could never imagine accomplishing so great a task without either. Then, she had assured him of both, hoping that her reservations betrayed her not in her eyes as she kissed him goodbye. . . but now, knowing that she may have, unwittingly, helped her husband into his own noose was a thought that sickened her. It was a truth that made her breath come tight in her lungs and pinched her heart to stuttering in her chest, no matter that she tried to force such a fear down, deep down behind her pride and her understanding and her _love_. But the human heart was fallibly _human_ , in a word, and she instead made a face as she took another long swallow of the rich liquid in her glass, not bothering to hold in her wince as the acerbic brew burned its way down her throat.  
  
She took in a deep breath, and held it. When she exhaled, however -  
  
“It's a sound that you never quite get used to, is it not?” she turned when a voice peeked in from the entrance to the tent to say. Her visitor's words were unerringly punctuated by the far off rumble of a cannon-shot, and she blinked at the dual cadence in her ears. “Though I've heard it said that there are those who find something _charming_ in the sound.”  
  
Even given blandly and pleasantly, she heard the barbed timbre underlying Alexander Hamilton's words – able as he was to speak only with blows or blades, at times. Martha took a moment to consider her reply as she looked him up and down, taking in the snowflakes frosting his uniform and the way his too dark eyes seemingly danced in accompaniment of his words – an unwitting call to arms, she knew, given as reflexively as his drawing in air through his lungs was. He could no more teach his eyes how not to blink than he could cease from throwing such gauntlets with his speech, even amongst those he considered dear to his heart, she wryly imagined.  
  
“Such were the words of a boy who had to say so in order to make sense of war in his own mind,” she gave in sage reply – delighting to see how his mouth made a thin line for her answer to his challenge. She suspected that he just barely kept himself from making a face, not having first expected her returning salvo. “A man grown, a veteran soldier,” she continued, “knows better.”  
  
“Perhaps,” Alexander shrugged, stepping fully inside the tent so as to prevent the hard won heat from from the brazier from escaping. “Yet, I believe that a man can become used to such a melody for what its song truly means.”  
  
“Such a belief is how most soldiers settle their nerves, I can well imagine,” Martha tilted her glass in acknowledgment of his words. “I must confess to agreeing with you.”  
  
“And, when such hypothetical ideology fails, it seems that you have the right of it.” Alexander's eyes flickered to her tumbler in clear bemusement, before he seemed to realize himself – seeing the loose braid of her hair over her shoulder, and her nightclothes worn underneath the thick material of her shawl, no matter the many such layers she wore in deference to the cold. She watched a blush touch his cheeks, and a part of her turned with a fond amusement she had not expected to find in Morristown that season. It was, she knew, an affection her husband completely shared, and had tried to put into words more than once.  
  
“I hope that you do not mind my intrusion,” Alexander finally found his voice to say. “I only saw the light from the candle come on, and I wished to ensure that you were well.” His words turned stiff and formal near the end of his sentence, and he stopped before saying more. Martha frowned, privately wondering what had him out and about on such a cold and snowy night - and at such a late hour, at that. She then sighed to imagine George's absently adding _'and see to my wife's needs until I return_ _'_ to any of his parting orders being taken with so much formal determination and rigid gravitas in the eyes of his aide. If the poor boy had been purposefully standing a post outside, all but waiting for a moment to be useful as a sentry at the door . . .  
  
“But, now that I see that you are well,” Alexander shuffled his weight from his left foot, to his right, before finding a soldier's posture to conclude, “perhaps it would be best if I was gone now.”  
  
“Or,” Martha found herself inviting before she first thought her words through, “you could sit down and have a drink with me – and try to warm your hands. You look quite chilled through.”  
  
Alexander blinked at her, and she watched his jaw work once, and then twice, no matter that his voice yet failed to aid him with the power of speech. He clearly hesitated, and she felt another fond rush touch the underside of her heart when he actually blushed at some thought that crossed his mind - wondering, as she did, of how his face could still be quite so expressive after every blow life had thrown at him, and he'd since weathered in his turn.  
  
“I am of an age with your mother,” Martha at last waved a hand to dismiss his unspoken sentiments – ruefully acknowledging that her prized mane of dark umber tresses was now touched with silver at the temples, just as the once alluring curves of her figure were now more _matronly_ than she cared to admit. But, she reflected, such a price paid was equal to the gift of motherhood and the years she had so far lived, and she would regret them not. “If it is a dalliance you seek, there are far more prettier girls available to you – many of whom are quite in the bloom of their youth, at that. Although,” this she remarked with a knowing look, her eyes flickering over him once in a clearly appraising way, “something tells me that you are already more than aware of such.” This, she well knew - for few things remained secret in an army camp for too long, especially when the gossip was on the ever titillating subject of romance.  
  
Yet, rather than his blush darkening at her words – the same as a boy caught with sticky fingers in a pie, so to speak - a sharp sort of rakish grin turned up the corners of his mouth. Her challenge was accepted, then. “In that case, if you do not fear the stain on your reputation, _madam_ ,” Alexander all but drawled his words, “then neither do I.”  
  
“I am already the wife of a traitor,” Martha shrugged her shoulders to parry his glancing blow. “Having a handsome young man attend me after civilized hours is not a charge I would regret being leveled against me.”  
  
She had surprised him, Martha knew by the way his dark eyes blinked and then narrowed on her. The knowledge was a pleasant thought as she nodded towards the bottle of rum and instead invited, “Now, drink up, young man; you have lost ground to recover.”  
  
No matter the bravado he had shown in his words, he still clearly hesitated before crossing the tent and pulling over a chair to sit by the brazier. She gave a wry look, wondering if he purposely chose the seat George normally commandeered, but chose not to comment on it as she instead filled a second glass for her guest and passed it to him after he carefully finished peeling off his cold, wet gloves - knit gloves that were thinner than she liked to see, she noticed, and filed away for future recollection.  
  
“That,” Alexander admitted after draining the glass in a few long gulps, “was admittedly good.”  
  
“My husband has exacting tastes,” she tucked away a smile to say, knowing that her words were true in more ways than one. “Which I can, in turn, appreciate myself.”  
  
Yet, if Alexander heard what her words truly meant, he made no sign in either face or speech. “Little as such tastes can be indulged here,” he instead scoffed to say. “That said,” he questioned carefully, “he will not mind . . .” he gestured, encompassing the dark, her unbound hair, and the bottle that she drained even further by refilling his glass a second time.  
  
“Leave the general's displeasure, if it is such, to me,” Martha felt her mouth turn up teasingly, and she had no need of elaborating further: Alexander gave a wry look and sipped at his second glass more slowly than the first.  
  
“I would not argue the lady there,” was all that he replied with a rueful shake of his head, and he said no more.  
  
A comfortable silence then fell between them then. Rather than speaking, she instead watched her guest as she absently swirled the amber liquid in her own tumbler, noticing how he carefully turned himself towards the heat of the brazier without overtly showing that he did so. The skin of his face was parched from the dry wintertime air, and he was still shivering, even long after his body should have succeeded in warming itself again. On the morrow, she thought distantly, she would broach the matter with Caty Greene and Lucy Knox, and see if they could add knitting warmer winter-wear for the boy to their ever growing list of provisions and humanities they supplied for the soldiers who were in need of such things. For, she knew, Alexander would never ask for himself while so many in their army went without.  
  
With that thought in mind, she had it on the tip of her tongue to ask how he fared through the changing of the seasons, but something about him, for all that it did not demand the formal, did not so easily lend itself to the intimate. As a result, few words were spoken between them until she filled his glass for the third time, and then neutrally commented, “George says you attended King's College?” which led to a few easy anecdotes and her eventual confirming that her one living child had also attended school there for a short time, though without graduating. Her saying so was followed by his polite inquiries and her stilted answers in reply – for she had little wish to speak of her son, who had always been secure in knowing of his inheritance from his late father, and thus had never felt inclined to develop his mind or further his prospects as other men with less fortunate births had to claw and scrape for every blessing life afforded them. It was a subject she could scarce discuss with her husband, let alone a youth who had come as far as Alexander Hamilton had.  
  
Thankfully, Alexander seemed to understand her reticence on the matter, and by the time he poured his fourth, and final, glass, they did find an easier subject in the shape of the fierce New England winters, which they both had a matching dislike for.  
   
“Then, what had you out and about in the cold this night?” she found herself chiding, a mother's instinctive censure inflecting her words before she could quite remember to withhold such a tone.  
  
Yet, the rum had done much to deny the boy of his ruffled quills, and his defenses were lowered against such normally unwelcome concerns. “What can I say? I was merely following orders – your husband's orders, at that,” Alexander gave a lazy salute to punctuate his answer. His words were slurred, not from intoxication, but from a more base need for rest and respite from the rigors of his occupation and the burdens of the war. More than any form of inebriation, the spirits had simply revealed where he had gone much too long without a good night's sleep, Martha thought with a knowing estimation, easily espying where the shadows underneath his eyes were much too dark for one so young, as were the already deeply engraved lines much too set upon his brow. Her fingertips itched, knowing that she wanted to help sooth the poor boy from each, but was quite unsure of how to go about doing so.  
  
And then, she gave a sigh to know that her earlier suspicions were correct. She would have to mention as much to George – for, no matter that Alexander Hamilton was an unequaled man of words when he used them as an offensive weapon, he was rather obtuse when words were used against him, and he took them to heart in the most somber, literal of ways.  
  
“And, what's more than that . . . I could not sleep,” Alexander's voice was soft as he offered his confession - as if he did not speak to her, but rather, to the wanting night and the shadows nestled within the empty tent. “I see things when I sleep . . . things I'd rather forget . . . my mind is not a kind fountain for my dreams, at times, and such visions trouble me . . . I had no wish to visit them this eve. Not alone, not without . . . ”  
  
Martha, remembering long nights filled with George's own soldier's dreams, and even her own plagues in the dark . . . dreams where she could so clearly remember Daniel's final smile, just as she could ever, and would ever, hear her daughter's last words before heaven took her . . .  
  
She frowned against her memories, and took a last sip of her own rum before putting the glass aside.  
  
“For, what's more than that,” he cleared his throat to continue, “Lieutenant Colonel Laurens is out there with General Washington. I was _supposed_ to be, and yet . . ." but he swallowed what he perhaps _wanted_ to say in favor of admitting, "From here I do not know how John fares . . . I am not there if anything happens to him: _he,_ who is dearer to my heart than even Jonathon was to David . . . just as I am not there to ensure the well-being of the . . . of your . . .”  
  
But he faltered, and did not finish his words – perhaps he could not, Martha then thought. His mouth was a thin, white line as he pursed his lips together, just as his fingertips were pale and bloodless as they pressed against his now empty glass. Instead of speaking further, he closed his eyes and let out a deep, weary breath, even as she sat but a foot away from him and yet wondered what she could say to help ease his mind of his pains. She felt her chest give a hollow sort of seize upon understanding just how real his fears and his worries were - wanting to tell him that such concerns turned easier to bear with time, but yet knowing that such fears never truly went away, not entirely. Even so, she had long come to learn that fearing for one's loved ones was a gift in of itself, for without the bonds to first inspire such a wretched fear, life was quite useless - void of the very attachments that made it worth living, and thus constraining one's days only to the act of breathing and existing. Though she had known many losses in her life, her scales could be called just for the many loves she had also been blessed to know, and she would not trade in any of them for the pains she had suffered – for the fears that she endured now, even. She could not be the only one who felt as such - for if she were, then they would not have their stubbornly assorted army fighting for their breathlessly idealistic cause. Instead -  
  
\- yet, sometime while she wondered how best to put her thoughts into words, the poor boy had nodded off to find a moment's repose, falling asleep while sitting upright in his seat. His chin slouched forward to rest against his chest and his back supported him at a truly awkward angle, prompting Martha to reach over and take the glass from his lax fingers before it could fall. Rising, she then padded across the tent to take a folded quilt from her chest, and returned to drape it about Alexander's still quivering shoulders. Even as his sleep deepened, he pulled the warmth in towards himself in a reflexive motion, still shivering pitifully. Her heart in her throat, Martha watched him, wanting to reach out and brush his hair from his face, but stopping herself from doing so, not wanting to disturb him in any way.  
  
In the end, she remained standing in her place, quite unsure of what to do next as she lingered for one long minute, and then two. She briefly contemplated moving him to the bed before imagining how ill he would be to the idea – just as she knew how inappropriate it would look come morning, all of their teasing words aside. Yet, Martha had little wish to wake him to return to his own cold tent, and though sleeping in such a way would result in quite a headache upon the morrow -  
  
\- yet, she found her thoughts quite interrupted when she heard the whinnying of approaching horses from outside the tent. It was only then that she blinked to realize that it had been some time since last she'd heard the reverberating murmur of the cannons from beyond; the front-lines were now mostly silent. With that thought in mind, she then understood and turned -  
  
\- just in time to see her rather snow-covered husband enter the tent, followed by an equally frosted John Laurens behind him. Catching George's eye, she made a quick motion for silence and gestured towards her sleeping guest. She watched as a question formed on his mouth before he clearly swallowed his words away, no matter that a furrowed line appeared between his brows, and remained there.  
  
“I saw the light on,” George explained on a whisper as he took off his tricorne and peeled off his gloves. “We would not have thought to disturb you otherwise.”  
  
“You were not the first to do so this night,” she assured with an equally soft tone as she stepped closer to him. The great disproportions between their heights did not easily allow her to reach his cheek to kiss, even when she stood on the very tips of her toes, so she tugged on his necktie to get him to hunch down in a gesture that was by then reflexive between them. His skin was chapped and cold underneath her lips, but her heart nonetheless clenched to have him safe and sound – there and  _alive_ for her to touch - and she briefly wished that she had less of an audience so that she could give into the bubbling sort of relief she had filling her veins then. Her eyes burned, but she stubbornly blinked away any trace of tears while their reunion was yet shared; she could make a still lake of her heart for a moment more.  
  
Thus, instead of giving into her own wants, her own needs, she settled for whispering into George's ear, “Apparently our Hamilton had orders to see to my well-fare, and he saw such a command through to completion above and beyond the call of duty. In his eyes, a flickering candle was to be watched for, and then summarily answered in the dead of the night.”  
  
She fell to the flats of her feet once more, and pulled away to watch understanding flicker and dawn in her husband's eyes. He looked weary, enervated beyond the point of physical fatigue, she thought with an answering pang in the hollow of her chest. As she watched, his taxed spirits made the lines of his years more severely etched upon his face as he turned to where the Laurens boy had discreetly turned away from their greeting in order to walk over and wake his friend with a gentle hand. No matter the cold and the snow still clinging to him, she remained by her husband's side when George turned, and he wrapped an arm about her shoulders in answer to her need for his nearness. She could feel where his cold fingertips absently traced the faint pox-marks she had earned the spring before in Philadelphia, ever knowing precisely where they were, even through the thick material of her shawl – with they being a small token of just what lengths she was willing to go through to stay by his side, in this and everything.  
  
George bore a heavy shade in his eyes, but such a shadow was not all from pain, she then understood, recognizing the expression as a fraction of the adoring way he had once looked at her own daughter - and even her son - throughout his years as their guardian, if not their father in every way that mattered. His ability to love a child even without being bound by blood was something she had first appreciated, and then loved about him, all those years ago, and now . . .  
  
Martha followed that gaze to where it focused on one Alexander Hamilton as he groggily joined the realm of wakefulness once more, and knew what it meant in its entirety.  
  
“You were celebrating without me?” John's voice was softly fond as he patiently coaxed his friend into awareness. When Alexander squinted, he wryly gestured to the empty glasses and rather depleted bottle they had left by the brazier.  
  
“You were off fighting the war without me?” was Alexander's perhaps petulant response, but Martha could see the way his eyes focused on the other man: turning almost greedy as understanding set in, knowing that he was not dreaming, that the cannons were mostly silent, and he had returned to him -  
  
She exhaled, and rested her head against her husband's side, even as she felt George's arm tighten almost reflexively about her shoulders in reply. Yes, she thought, the look on Alexander's face was one she could well understand.  
  
“I'll get him off to bed now, sir,” once he helped a protesting Alexander to his feet, John addressed her husband as he supported his friend's weight by draping one of his arms across his shoulders. Alexander, she thought, was yet too ensnared by his body's rebellious need for sleep to protest – much, that was.  
  
“Make sure that he sleeps the morning through, if you can,” George instructed. His voice was firm and even, yet had it not been, Martha suspected that he would have received more than Alexander's faint look of distaste in reply. “He has worn himself thin as of late.”  
  
“I'll be here first thing,” was Alexander's predictable protest, and he stood up straighter as if to punctuate his words.  
  
“Of course you will, Alex,” John humored his friend as he turned them both to leave the tent. He only glanced back once to bow his head and respectfully bid, “Goodnight, General, Lady Washington.”  
  
Martha inclined her head in an answering farewell, only catching Alexander's eye once as he cracked the corner of his mouth in an impish smile. He drowsily saluted in order to say, “I thank-you, my lady, for allowing me the pleasure of keeping the most fetching woman in our camp company this cold winter's night. Such is a privilege only a worthy few shall ever boast of, and I shall cherish my memory of your . . . hospitality.”  
  
Almost out of reflex, she rolled her eyes in answer, even as John audibly sighed out _“rake”_ on an affectionate exhale. Taking mock offense, Alexander protested, “I prefer _charmer_ ,” but anything more of their conversation was taken beyond the tent as the restless hush of the army camp at night instead took its place, and she was then left alone with her husband.  
  
In answer, George only sighed at his wayward aide, and commented, “That boy will let his mouth march him into an early grave if he is not careful.”  
  
“Perhaps, someday,” Martha shrugged to agree. Their audience gone, she then turned in his arms so that she could embrace her spouse properly, feeling as a missing part of her spirit's being slipped into place for her being once more allowed to return to his side. Standing flat on her feet, her head nestled quite nicely against his heart as his arms held her tightly to him, and she closed her eyes to better hear its reassuring beat. “Yet, can you imagine where his words shall take him first? The privilege of hearing the one must certainly outweigh the potential tragedy of the other, I should think.”  
  
“Only if he makes it through this war alive, that is,” George's words were a slow release of breath through his teeth, and she could hear all that he did not say in that one frustrated exhalation. She opened her eyes, knowing that there were only so many bullets her husband could shield the boy from before he chaffed as a spirited horse held to cart and canter when it wished only to _run_.  
  
But, she did not wish to have a conversation they could better have upon the morrow right then. “If you _all_ do,” she replied instead, and when she stood on the tips of her toes she did not have to pull him down to meet her lips in a kiss. Instead, she closed her eyes as she felt his hands sink into her hair to hold her closer to him, reveling in the heat and the strength of his embrace even after so many years together. Her heart still thundered with relief for the reprieve they had been granted, and, determined to succor herself on what she had _then_ – that which she may not have upon the morrow – a note of urgency touched her affections as she held her husband to her and refused to let him go.  
  
And, thus cocooned in their own little corner of the night, she did not again notice the song of the cannons until the morrow.  
 

**Author's Note:**

> **A Few Fun Facts:**
> 
> _“I heard the bullets whistle, and, believe me, there is something charming in the sound.”_ Quote from a twenty-one year old George Washington after his first taste of combat, which prompted a dismissive response from King George, saying how his opinion would change after the more bullets he heard. I can only imagine that Hamilton would find that quote amusing.
> 
> Also: the four bullets through his clothes and the two horses shot out from underneath Washington at the Battle of the Monongahela? Completely historically accurate, at least by my reading. ;)


End file.
